Forsooth, ’tis a wondrous day in which I should encounter you here, oh faceless and massive horde from across these electron-waves. Settle a while on thine object of comfort of choice and rest thine eyes upon the screens of plastic and glass which bake thine minds with actions inconsequential. But lo, a deviation from slow mental death doth come to you like the Index’s sent-wingéd angels. ‘Tis this post, hailing from the most glorious house of Friday Fictioneers, inspired forthwith by the picture provided below. Avert thine eyes, ye who easily fall victim to the mountainous glory of art! For you shall find all such rapturous content below!
Nevermind, no you won’t. Read the dinky story already.
Genre: Realistic Fiction
Word Count: 100
Title: Thoreau’s Advice
My concerned neighbor is back. We’re always running into each other. He shifts and shimmers on my wall.
He always looks so nervous. So scared.
I put my hand up to him, to try to console him. But he puts his hand up just like me. He doesn’t want to be touched, aside from on the palm (which is something).
When he frowns, I frown. When I try to smile, he does too.
We’re so alike. But so apart.
I wonder if he thinks the same thing I do. I wonder if he wishes he could jump through the mirror.
You can blame the intro today (because there’s always something to blame for them) on Henry the 4th and Prince Hal. Not the Shakespeare characters, the actual historical people themselves. We should all dig them up and desiccate their graves. You know, as payback. Plus we’ll all get to go to England. It’s a win for everybody.
Maybe I’ll learn to cut these outros short one day. Or I’ll stop implicating myself as a barely-concealed maniac.
Incidentally, Polonius is probably my spirit animal *smart people joke.*
Good luck, you brave writer folk!